


Better Than Blood

by DameRuth



Category: Being Human
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-12
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So Aleska and I just watched the first season of Being Human on DVD (we'll be getting the second season as soon as it fits into our budget -- yay for good prices at Amazon.uk and our multi-region player!).  A friend of mine had recced the series <i>heavily</i> to me, saying, "If I know you, you'll be writing fanfic for it in no time!"  He does know me, case in point.  I don't expect to write a lot for this fandom, but this story wanted to get out of my head and clear the way for more of "Circle," so bear with me. ;)</p><p>The unlikely friendship between the main characters is the driving "heart" of the show, as is their longing for the domesticity us human types take for granted, and I wanted to explore the way their "conditions" made their living together possible, if not easy.  I also wanted to play with Mitchell's headspace a bit and liked the idea of him having a completely human moment of angst solved in a completely human way.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Better Than Blood

**Author's Note:**

> So Aleska and I just watched the first season of Being Human on DVD (we'll be getting the second season as soon as it fits into our budget -- yay for good prices at Amazon.uk and our multi-region player!). A friend of mine had recced the series _heavily_ to me, saying, "If I know you, you'll be writing fanfic for it in no time!" He does know me, case in point. I don't expect to write a lot for this fandom, but this story wanted to get out of my head and clear the way for more of "Circle," so bear with me. ;)
> 
> The unlikely friendship between the main characters is the driving "heart" of the show, as is their longing for the domesticity us human types take for granted, and I wanted to explore the way their "conditions" made their living together possible, if not easy. I also wanted to play with Mitchell's headspace a bit and liked the idea of him having a completely human moment of angst solved in a completely human way.

Mitchell hates war movies.

Normally he avoids them, but Annie and George wanted to rent _The Hurt Locker_ because it was nominated for an Oscar and had been getting good reviews. Mitchell went along with them, figuring it was about such a different type of war than _his_ war, it'd be okay.

It wasn't, which is why he's up at two in the morning with all the downstairs lights on and some music going, in the hopes of drowning out the memories that had ambushed him after the movie was over and the house was silent.

Five minutes after the music goes on, George is stomping down the stairs, fuming. "Bloody _hell_, Mitchell," he says, the words somewhere between a snarl and a whine, "do you know what time it is? I'm having enough trouble sleeping without you making a racket down here . . ." The moon is waxing, four nights away from full, and George is getting edgier. His senses are sharpening and his internal clock is trying to go nocturnal, leaving him sleep-deprived and grouchy.

Mitchell is sitting on the couch, elbows on knees, staring at his own clasped hands. He looks up at George and George's mouth snaps shut. Mitchell has no idea what his face looks like, but it must be impressive. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I know what time it is."

Emotions chase each other across George's soft, open face. He's young, so young -- just like the "men" in Mitchell's unit, the ones it was his responsibility to lead into battle . . . and to their deaths, all too often. They hadn't seemed young at the time because he'd been roughly their age himself; now, in hindsight, they'd been boys, just children.

George's expression settles into a worried little frown. He drops onto the couch next to Mitchell. "Are you all right?" he asks, in the tone of one who knows his question is laughably rhetorical, but who can't think of anything better to say.

George is warm, positively radiating heat, this close to his transformation. That warmth, along with the sound of George's beating heart, makes Mitchell's stomach twist with the first pangs of hunger and the desire to _feed_. It's always like that for vampires, when they're stressed. Blood truly is a drug; it wipes away all the bad feelings and all the memories, leaving just the present moment and a glowing, euphoric high.

Fortunately for both of them, George might have the warmth of food, but he doesn't smell like it. Under the usual overlay of soap, shampoo and dryer sheets, there's a thick, ugly, animal smell, wet dog with an edge of something else. It's repellent, offensive to a vampire's sensibilities, like something gone off in the fridge. Mitchell's stomach rolls, nausea trading places with hunger. He wants to move away but doesn't, to spare George's feelings; then, for the first time, he wonders what _he_ smells like to George.

Nothing good, he's willing to bet, but George shows no sign of distaste and never has. _Old blood and death, that's probably me,_ Mitchell thinks, then he's hit by a sense-memory coming out of nowhere: the stench of corpses, fresh and not-so-fresh; rot and mud and stagnant water. He swallows in earnest, afraid he might throw up, but that's when, with perfect timing, Annie walks into the room. Naturally she's aware of what's going on -- the house is like a second skin to her and she hears everything that happens inside its walls, if she chooses.

She's carrying a steaming mug: yet another of her ubiquitous hot beverages, but this time it's welcome. Mitchell lets her press it into his hands. The coffee is so hot it stings his palms through the ceramic, but that's good, that's grounding. He raises the mug to his lips, letting the sane, everyday scent fill his nostrils, and manages a small sip of scalding black bitterness to settle his stomach.

Annie settles to her knees in front of him, her hands clasped and resting on her thighs, wearing a small frown that's twin to George's. She's blessedly neutral to Mitchell's senses: no warmth, no heartbeat, no scent, nothing but _her_. It's oddly soothing to be around someone even deader than he is.

Mitchell knows he needs to say something; he's _de facto_ head of their little household because neither George nor Annie is a very take-charge type, and they look to him to be stable and reassuring. He has a responsibility to them the way he had a responsibility to his soldiers, those long years ago.

He winces as his thoughts circle back around to the place he least wants them to go. What comes out of his mouth as he stares fiercely into his coffee is a flat, "No more war movies." Maybe not what he'd intended to say, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees George and Annie trade glances.

"I'm sorry," George says, genuinely contrite, "I -- we -- didn't think . . ." and Mitchell knows George, at least, understands. _We didn't remember how old you are. You've mentioned the War once or twice, but it's all just history to us, it's not real._

"I know," Mitchell tells him. It comes out sounding harsher than he intends and he takes another sip of Annie's coffee to clear his throat. "I know," he repeats; it comes out better the second time.

"Tell you what," Annie says, with determined cheer. "We're all here now, why don't we watch something else? Something fun?"

George grabs onto the idea like a downing man thrown a rope. "Good idea!" he says. "It's been a while since we watched _The African Queen_. Or maybe a little Laurel and Hardy." He stands up, heading for the shelf of DVDs.

"No!" Mitchell says, and it comes out angry, desperate. The others turn hurt eyes in his direction and he struggles to explain. "Nothing old. Something new. I need to remember where I am."

"Oh. Right. Of course," George says, and redirects his attention to the pile of rented movies they haven't watched yet. They go through a lot of DVDs together; none of them get out much in the evenings. All the clerks at the shop know Mitchell and George's account number on sight.

Shuffling through the stack, George pulls out _Up,_ a movie Annie had wanted to see, and holds it out for approval. Mitchell nods. A cartoon -- computer animated, even, nothing old-fashioned about it -- seems like just the right thing.

They settle in to watch, George next to Mitchell on the sofa, warm and companionable, if smelly; Annie curls up on the floor at Mitchell's feet, using his shins as a backrest. She's not quite insubstantial, for all that she has no mass; there's a cool, comforting pressure from her presence. Vampires, the vampires who feed and spend their lives on a constant blood high, have nothing like this. At best, they're capable of a chilly camaraderie based on shared self-interest. They look after one another sometimes, but as a matter of survival in numbers, not because they care.

The movie proves to be better than Mitchell expects and does what movies should, pulling him and the others out of themselves, sweeping them along with a story that lets them laugh and (surreptitiously in George and Mitchell's case) cry. A good movie is almost as effective as blood for helping Mitchell forget what he can't stand to remember.

Friendship's even better.


End file.
